


Battle Scars

by wocket



Series: Honor Bound [3]
Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Military, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Coming Out, Dom/sub Undertones, Dylric, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Internalized Homophobia, Kid Fic, M/M, Marriage, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 12:56:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21410548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wocket/pseuds/wocket
Summary: Married life. Eric and Dylan improvise, adapt, and overcome.
Relationships: Eric Harris/Dylan Klebold
Series: Honor Bound [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1393591
Comments: 11
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please read [Part I](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18168968) and [Part II](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19245949) first! 
> 
> Titles taken from Chemical Brothers songs.

Dylan makes home movies of their life with his little digital camera, but mostly of Eric. They’re sort of like the videos they used to make with a Sony 8mm back in high school, less out there, more personal. His latest short video clip begins with a shot of the redwood trees behind their house, then cuts to a wide shot of Eric standing on the deck, smoking a cigarette. Dylan’s voiceover is in the style of a nature documentary: “_Here we have the elusive Eric Harris in his natural habitat_.”

The camera zooms in on Eric’s face until he fills the frame, cigarette smoke curling around him. He holds up a middle finger and flips off the camera. 

“Just because that thing has an in-camera zoom doesn’t mean you should use it, you plebe,” Eric snarks.

“No backseat directing,” Dylan reminds him playfully, only to earn another middle finger.

“Come here so I can give you something worth filming,” Eric tells him.

Dylan keeps filming and walks closer. Eric reaches up and pushes the camera down, but it still records from a tilted, upside-down angle as he tugs Dylan into a kiss.

“Turn that thing off,” Eric commands.

“Relax. It’s not like people are tripping over themselves to see our stupid videos.”

“Not with your camerawork,” comes Eric’s retort, and then they’re kissing again. The clip ends.

*

“V, what’s this?”

Eric reappears from the guest room closet with an old shoebox. Dylan recognizes it right away, wondering what Eric’s doing upstairs. Eric gingerly pulls out a stack of folded papers. He starts to unfold one and recognizes his own handwriting. He unfolds another, and then a third.

“Are you serious?” Eric recognizes them, all labeled with Dylan at the top, or Vodka, or just V in his own messy scrawl. They’re the letters they wrote to each other during Eric’s time in the Marine Corps. “You kept all these?”

Eric finds a letter from 2002, about the time of his first deployment. It feels like such a long time ago. 

Dylan kneels beside Eric. “I couldn’t stand the thought of not having these if something happened to you.”

“I can’t believe it.” He opens the letter completely, reading parts of it out loud. “_Our patrol today took us just outside Kunduz, to a ‘military graveyard’ called Bala Hissar. I wish you could have seen it. Dropped in the middle of the dirty hills are old Soviet tanks and militia equipment_,” Eric reads, remembering that day. He moves further down the page. “_I'm sick of shooting, sick of IEDs, SICK of praying my legs don't get blown off on the road._” His voice gets gravelly as he reads the last sentence. “Fuck.” He puts the letters down, unable to continue. “You kept me sane. Well,” Eric scoffs. “If I even was before I left. Damn, Dylan, what the hell was I doing?”

Dylan reaches for his husband. Eric is stiff at first but pushes his face into Dylan’s chest. Wetness seeps through his shirt and he winds his skinny arms around his husband. Dylan grabs him and doesn’t let go.

“Your job. Your duty,” Dylan answers.

They sit there holding each other in a pile of papers until Eric’s leg starts to cramp. Dylan recognizes the familiar signs, and he stands up first, holding his hand out for Eric. He hoists him up and follows him down the stairs and into the bedroom, where he turns the lights off.

Dylan stays awake for a long time, long enough to see Eric fall asleep beside him. When he’s sure Eric’s asleep, he gently extricates himself from the bed. Moving quietly, Dylan returns upstairs to the box. He takes a few moments to look through Eric’s letters, remembering how it felt to open them for the first time, before digging underneath them all for the letter he knows sits at the bottom of the stack, hidden under everything else.

It’s an envelope addressed to Eric Harris, not mailed, not postmarked. Dylan doesn’t know why he kept it, what possessed him to hang on to the letter. It was stupid, in hindsight, even though he’d never expected Eric to find the box.

Dylan runs his fingers across Eric’s name, written in his own looping font. The envelope is still sealed but he knows what’s inside.

It’s a suicide note, dated roughly April 2002.

Dylan pictured Eric every time he thought about really doing it, imagined him reading the letter or someone telling him that Dylan had killed himself. It hurt, it made him uncomfortable, and it was what stopped him every time. Dylan couldn’t take the idea of Eric alone in Afghanistan learning of his loss.

Dylan pulls the letter from the envelope and reads his shaky handwriting.

_Eric,_

_I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, I can’t do this anymore. Hope hurts. I thought I could wait for you but life is brutal and I can’t exist without you. I’m so fucking scared all the time, wondering if you’ll ever come back. Please don’t hate me for this. If there’s anything that comes after, I know you’ll find me. I love you_

_Yours forever,  
<s>Vodka</s> Dylan_

The paper trembles in his hands. In the same way he didn’t want to imagine life without Eric, he didn’t want to imagine Eric’s life without him in it.

Dylan decides to take the letter downstairs instead of putting it back in the box. Before he goes to bed, he drops it into the kitchen trash can. It’s time to let go.

*

Dylan pads sleepily into his kitchen, adjusting his glasses as they droop on his nose. He’s about to grab an Eggo waffle from the freezer when he notices Eric sitting at the kitchen table. His shoulders are hunched, his body language is tense, upset.

Dylan realizes the letter he finally threw away last night is sitting in front of Eric on the table along with a bottle of scotch. “Oh, shit,” he murmurs.

“Yeah, shit,” Eric repeats. “Goddamn.”

“Eric —”

“You’re smarter than this —”

“That’s why I didn’t do it—”

“No. Leaving this in the trash where I could find it. You know my memory, man. I thought I missed a piece of mail.” Eric bangs his fist on the table. “_What the fuck_, Dylan?” 

“You’re overreacting.”

“Tell me again what I’m feeling, Dylan. Fucking try it.”

Dylan falls silent. 

“This is fucked up. Why would you keep this?”

“You were never supposed to read that.”

“It’s got my goddamn name on it!”

“I never sent it.”

“But you kept it.” Then, quietly: “You never told me.”

“I don’t know why. I’m sorry, Reb. You have to believe me.”

Eric crumples the letter in his fist. Dylan knows better than to try and speak.

*

Eric acts like he doesn’t want anything to do with Dylan after that, so Dylan sleeps in the spare bedroom at the top of the stairs, mostly just to spite Eric.

Eric only makes it two days before he trudges upstairs to find his husband. Dylan thinks it might only be the second or third time he’s been upstairs since they’ve owned the house.

“I want you to come back,” Eric tells him. “I missed you.”

“I don’t know,” Dylan teases, drawing it out. “I kinda like not having to share the covers with your bony ass,” he tells him, crawling over to Eric’s spot on the edge of the bed.

“You love my bony ass.”

Dylan shrugs. “I do.”

If you asked either of them, they’d both say the other was the one to start the kiss, unwilling to admit they made the first move.

“Come back? Please don’t make me say it again.”

Dylan sighs dramatically like it’s a chore though he’s pleased Eric is the one to ask. “I guess so.” 

Eric grabs his hand and pulls him downstairs, taking things slow just to be safe. 

“Go easy on me,” Dylan says, a small smile crossing his face. Eric’s feeling more romantic than ravenous, for some reason, so it’s no chore to oblige. He gets his hands on Dylan, which seems to relax him immediately. 

“Please don’t leave me,” Eric murmurs in Dylan’s ear. “I’m not ready for that.” He backs Dylan up until his knees hit the bed and he sinks onto the edge. Hands in Dylan’s hair, he kisses him. “You’re mine,” he swears in between kisses.

“I’m yours,” Dylan agrees, and lets Eric lean him back onto the covers, lets Eric press kisses against his side and over his hips and along the golden hair leading from his navel somewhere beneath his waistband. 

Eric yanks his shirt over his head and steps out of his jeans, frustrated when Dylan makes no move to take off his own pants. “You could help me a little,” he complains, reaching for the button of Dylan’s pants. Dylan at least lifts his hips so Eric can tug his pants down his hips and throw them to the side.

Eric opens Dylan up on his fingers before pressing inside him, feeling Dylan tighten around his cock. It’s been too long since they’ve done this, too long since they’ve taken each other apart.

Dylan’s hands tense against Eric’s back, long fingers firm against his skin. Eric is driving into him, pressing deep inside, striking that spot inside him with such abandon that Dylan can only cling to him. Then, amid the sounds of their flesh slapping together, Eric grunts and it doesn’t sound good. 

“Babe?” Dylan asks, checking in with him. He feels Eric pause and pull out. 

“It’s my knee,” he says sadly, collapsing beside Dylan.

“Get on your back,” Dylan recommends. They hardly ever do this anymore, it’s always been a feat with Dylan’s long legs.

“Mmm?”

Dylan turns over and manhandles Eric onto his back so he can straddle him. He leans down and kisses Eric’s chest. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Dylan sinks down onto Eric’s dick and rides him until they both reach release. Eric’s eyes flutter shut in pleasure. 

Satiated, they crash against the pillows.

“Did we just have makeup sex?” Dylan asks. 

“Mmhmm,” Eric confirms, kissing his temple. “We are officially back together.”

“We never broke up, stupid,” Dylan reminds him, catching his chin and pulling him into a kiss. “How’d you convince me to do all the work?”

“I’m a cripple,” Eric shrugs.

“Thanks for letting me move back into my own room.”

“I’m an asshole,” Eric groans. “I know.”

*

It’s a toss-up: Dylan doesn’t know if Eric will bitch at him for making a major life decision without consulting him first or if he’ll be pleased with the surprise. Dylan chooses to take a risk.

Dylan remembers the dog Eric owned and loved in high school, a little Yorkshire Terrier named Sparky. They’d been close, and Eric had been distraught when the dog had to be put down. Dylan remembers the day Eric drove straight to his house after leaving the vet, the way he’d crawled into Dylan’s bed and pretended to be okay, hiding his face and trying not to let his tears show. Eric hadn’t had a pet since high school, but Dylan wondered if he might like one, if it might soften him around the edges. Dylan was still looking for ways to make up to Eric after the whole letter incident.

Dylan starts looking at Yorkies and small dogs, and decides that Eric would probably miss Sparky too much. He might like the idea of something bigger, something fiercer. Dylan considers all the big dogs - Golden Retrievers, Huskies, Great Danes - but decides to go with a German Shepherd in the end.

Dylan decides to save the big reveal for Eric’s birthday. After spending weeks hunting for the right dog, he locates the biggest box he can, but it still barely contains the gift for his husband. He sets up the surprise on the deck and finds Eric.

Dylan takes a deep breath. “I have something for you.”

“What? Really? _Für mich_?”

“A birthday present slash apology. It’s on the deck.”

Eric makes a curious face, walking toward the doors, where he could see something waiting.

“The fuck, V?” Eric asks with a grin, peering into the large box. He reaches in and pulls out the puppy. “Is this for real?” He looks the dog in the eye, then holds it to his chest. “She’s so soft,” he remarks, scratching behind her ear.

The dog is glued to his side, after that. 

Eric holds her closer, nuzzling her head. Her tail wags happily.

Dylan smiles as Eric looks at her fondly. “You like her?”

Eric looks astonished at the question. Standing up and bringing the dog with him, he puts his free hand around Dylan’s neck and pulls him into a deep kiss, one that leaves the dog licking at Eric’s chin.

“Thank you,” Eric says sincerely, a phrase Dylan rarely hears. He winds his arms around Eric’s waist and pulls him closer. This isn’t half-bad. 

Eric kisses him again, a grateful thank you. He holds the dog while Dylan holds him and Dylan says a quiet thank you to the universe.

*

Getting Eric a dog ends up being one of the best decisions of Dylan’s life. Eric bonds with the dog immediately. Eric spoils her and treats her like a baby, and while Eric’s not the greatest at taking care of himself, he takes care of her every need, food, walks, exercise. She gives him a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

Eric names her Mal, after Mallory from _Natural Born Killers_. He thinks it sounds vaguely threatening. Dylan insists it’s bad luck, but the moniker sticks.

This scene becomes typical: Dylan finishes brushing his teeth before joining his husband in bed. No sooner does he peck Eric’s cheek when Eric starts calling for the dog. She jumps up on the bed, circling their feet excitedly. Eric buries his face in the dog’s long fur, whispering made-up words and speaking to her like she’s a baby.

Dylan sighs, watching the two of them a little wistfully. It was cute, but he missed having all of Eric’s attention. Eric cuddles the dog all the damn time. 

Eric looks over Dylan, catching on. “Are you jealous?” 

“Maybe a little.” 

“Don’t be jealous of Mal. She’s part of our family.”

_Family_, Dylan thinks. That is what they are, isn’t it? Still, Eric used to spend his evenings giving _him_ attention, not their dog.

“I’m not jealous,” Dylan responds immediately, wincing at how jealous he sounds. “I love how much you love her.”

Eric smirks. He rubs his nose against Dylan’s neck and presses a kiss there. He starts stroking Dylan’s blond hair and petting him like he’s a dog. “Are you a good boy?” Eric murmurs, voice rising an octave.

Dylan rolls his eyes.

Eric drops a kiss on Dylan’s forehead. “I love you. So fucking much. You know that, right?”

Dylan tries to hide his smile. It feels good to hear Eric say the words; he did know, but he likes hearing it just the same.

Eric shimmies into the middle of the bed, adjusting until he’s got Dylan under one arm, and then pats the spot beside him with his free hand until he’s surrounded by Dylan and dog.

Dylan rolls his eyes at Eric taking up so much space but reaches over him to pat Mal on the head before settling in.

*

Dylan trudges into the kitchen later than usual the next morning.

“Where’ve you been, Sleeping Beauty?” Eric asks, not looking up from the newspaper.

“Don’t hate me,” Dylan says, pressing a kiss to the back of Eric’s neck before sitting down beside him. “I was on the phone with my mom.”

“Why would I be mad about a phone call with your mom?” Eric looks over the top of the paper.

“Because it’s not just a phone call,” Dylan sighs. “She’s coming here.”

Eric raises his eyebrows. 

“It’s my mom, Eric. I can’t keep her out forever.”

“Fine,” Eric relents. “But you owe me.”

“I owe you,” Dylan repeats miserably.

“Did you tell her we’re married yet?”

Dylan groans and puts his face in his hands. “No.”

“I don’t have to be here for that discussion, do I?”

Dylan frowns. _Why does Eric have to be so difficult?_ “I’d love it if you could back me up, babe. Plus… she’ll be happy,” he tries to convince him.

“If she’ll be happy, why doesn’t she know yet?”

“Since when are you on the coming out train all of a sudden? You seem pretty eager.”

Eric sighs and steps behind Dylan. He wraps him up in his arms. “Look. You know me, V. Do whatever the fuck you want. But I know you and I know how badly keeping this from your parents must hurt you.”

“So you think I need to do it.”

Eric presses kisses to his cheek. “You need to do it.”

*

Dylan starts cleaning obsessively the week before his mom is due to arrive in Santa Cruz. It drives Eric nuts.

“Calm the fuck down,” Eric tells him, sneaking up behind him and grabbing him around the waist. “Everything looks fine.”

Dylan puts down the Windex and squeezes Eric’s hand. “Thanks.”

“You want to watch a movie?”

Dylan shrugs non-committally.

“That’s a no,” Eric interprets. “Just… _chill_.”

“Three more days.” Dylan sighs. “You gonna be all right with somebody else in the house?”

“Better than you, at this rate,” Eric snarks, annoyed that Dylan turned things around on him. He lets Dylan go. Dylan walks back and forth in front of the big window.

“Can you be serious?”

“Maybe.”

“_Will_ you be serious?”

Eric rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

“You think my mom will like the house?”

“It’s our house! Who cares?” Eric knows Dylan just wants his parents to be proud of him and his decisions, but damn, he could be sensitive. Eric is going to throw the remote control at Dylan if he doesn’t stop pacing. “Hey! Get over here.”

Eric snags Dylan’s t-shirt and leads him to the sofa.

“Dylan Bennet Klebold,” Eric hisses. “Are you gonna stay down?” he asks when Dylan sits, and when his answer is non-committal, Eric pushes him onto his back on the sofa. “Look at me,” he says, drawing Dylan’s eyes to his. His hand is squarely in the center of Dylan’s chest so he can’t get away. “This is our _home_. And it’s fucking amazing,” he says sincerely. They’d both invested a lot of time, energy, and money into the house since purchasing it after the move to California. They’d both cared about their starter house in Arizona, but this was truly a _home_. Eric wants it to feel that way. “If she doesn’t see that… she doesn’t deserve to be here,” he says, surprisingly gentle and unusually mature. “I know you’re worried, Dyl. I know she has the power to break your heart. I wish she didn’t.” He tucks a piece of Dylan’s hair behind his ear for him, which makes him blush. “Whatever she thinks, this is still the best thing to ever happen to me.”

Dylan exhales, and he takes Eric’s cheeks between his hands and kisses him. Eric doesn’t always say much, but he knows the words that can get right to Dylan (for better or worse). This time they’re touching and make Dylan realize how much he has at his fingertips. They’d cultivated this life together, and while parts of it were messy, parts of it were beautiful. 

*

Dylan begs Eric to go with him to the airport to pick up his mom, but Eric denies the offer.

“I’m going to stay here with the dog,” Eric tells him plainly. “We’ll have more than enough time together.”

Dylan sulks but Eric simply walks past him and back into their bedroom. Conversation over.

When Dylan walks into the house with his mother after returning from the airport, Mal’s leash is missing from its spot by the door.

“Well, this is it,” Dylan tells Sue nervously. “Home sweet home.”

“Wow. Dylan, it’s wonderful,” she says, taking in the vaulted ceilings, hardwood floors, and the forest view from every window.

“Yeah,” Dylan agrees, instead of thanking her for the compliment. He likes the place; he can’t help it. He watches as Sue makes her way around the living room.

“Do you _need_ any more of these?” Sue asks, pointing to the various game consoles on the entertainment center. 

“Most of them are Eric’s,” Dylan deflects. 

“I know better,” Sue replies.

Sue is completely taken with the view when she sees the doors to the large deck, as Dylan hoped she would be. “Wow,” she says again, and Dylan is pleased she’s impressed.

Dylan offers to lug his mom’s suitcase up the stairs to the spare bedroom.

“This is you,” Dylan tells her.

“And it’s lovely,” she replies, looking around. The room is clean and neat.

Dylan can hear the front door open, the familiar sounds of Eric and Mal drifting through their house. “Take a minute to get settled. I’ll be downstairs.”

Dylan is deep in conversation with Ericwhen Sue reappears at the bottom of the stairs after unpacking. Engrossed, it’s easy to miss that she’s moving toward Dylan and Eric’s bedroom until she’s already there. 

“Is this your room, Dylan? I’d like to see…” she starts, and before she can finish or Dylan can tell her no, Sue pops her head into what she assumes is Dylan’s bedroom only to see a queen-sized bed, both sides unmade.

Eric’s pills are on the nightstand closest to the door, medicine bottles stacked neatly in a row. On the other nightstand by the window are Dylan’s glasses and an alarm clock she recognizes from back home.

Sue closes the door.

Dylan is silent. Arms crossed, he watches her reaction carefully. 

His mom doesn’t say anything, just turns to him. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah,” he replies after a pause. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

*

Sue keeps looking at Dylan and smiling during their meal.

“What, Mom?” 

“I’m just proud of you, Dylan, that’s all. You’ve got a job, a house…”

Dylan wondered if she’d be as pleased if there wasn’t an implied “unlike Byron” at the end of her sentence. It wasn’t Byron’s fault he picked the wrong industry. Dylan had chosen the right thing at the right time. More than that, Dylan had Eric, so he had it all.

Dinner is pleasant. Neither one of them mentions Eric, and while Dylan feels a little guilty, that night, Dylan goes to bed feeling satisfied. 

*

When Eric gets back from walking the dog, Dylan is up early, sitting on the couch. Dylan is _never_ up early. Eric unhooks the leash from Mal’s collar and she greets Dylan, taking a seat at his feet.

“Did you feed her?” Dylan asks quietly when Eric flops down next to him.

“Before our walk,” Eric answers, leaning against Dylan’s shoulder, feeling like he could go back to sleep. He grabs the blanket from the back of the couch and throws it over their legs.

Dylan yawns and leans his head on top of Eric’s. Instinctively, his hand reaches for Eric’s leg underneath the blanket. “How’s your —”

“M’fine,” Eric cuts him off before he can finish the question. He intercepts Dylan’s hand with his own and twines their fingers together.

Sleepy and comfortable, they don’t notice Dylan’s mom making her way down the stairs a few minutes later. 

When Dylan hears the bottom step creak, his eyes open quickly, and he starts to pull away from his husband despite realizing that it’s pointless at this point.

“I’m sorry,” Sue apologizes. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Did you tell her?” Eric asks, half-asleep, looking to Dylan. Dylan shakes his head no.

“Tell me what?” Sue asks, concerned.

“Mom… Eric and I are married,” he says, just blurting it out.

“I know. I’m happy for you two.”

“What?” That wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting. She doesn’t look surprised at all. “You knew?”

“Dylan, you moved in with Eric the second he got out of the military. You’ve sent me photos of you two that might as well be on a Christmas card. And how many years have you been wearing that ring?”

Dylan is speechless. 

“Let me make you two breakfast.” She disappears into the kitchen, the dog following her.

Eric squeezes Dylan’s hand under the blanket, as if to say _see_.

Dylan kisses the smirk off of Eric’s face. A weight feels lifted from his shoulders.

They doze on the sofa for twenty minutes, until Sue calls to them from the kitchen. “Food’s ready!”

When they join her in the kitchen, Sue is trying to get the dog to sit beside the table unsuccessfully. “Sit. Sit!”

“That’s never gonna work,” Dylan laughs.

“_Platz_,” Eric commands in German, and the dog lies down on the floor. 

“Does she at least listen to you, Dylan?”

“Just Eric, mostly. Because he gives her everything she’s not supposed to —” before Dylan can say the word _eat_, he sees Eric holding a strip of bacon out for Mal. “Eric,” Dylan whines. “_Really_?”

“She’s hungry!”

“She eats ten pounds of dog food every week; she’s _fine_,” Dylan insists, taking a seat beside Eric.

Sue joins them at the table, looking from one young man to the other.

“Dylan, I’m sure you’re not going to be thrilled with me, but I have to ask. Do Eric’s parents know?”

Dylan defers to Eric, who puts down his fork. “Um, yeah, they’ve known for a while. Mom and Dad haven’t come around to it just yet.”

“_Just yet_,” Dylan mutters under his breath. Eric came out to Wayne and Kathy almost four years ago. They were none too pleased with Eric’s admission or his choice of partner.

“Sorry to hear that, Eric.”

Eric shrugs. His parents were cool; it was really too bad that they were prejudiced about this when he’d tried hard to make them proud in other ways. He tried not to hold it against them even though it bothered Dylan greatly (the whole thing had added to his hesitation to be completely honest with his own parents).

“Thanks for making it a non-issue, Mrs. Klebold.”

“Please. It’s Sue.”

Dinner conversation continues amiably, and Dylan kind of likes how it feels not having any secrets from his mother. The meal goes well, and it’s a good omen for the rest of Sue’s trip, which goes as pleasantly as they all could have hoped for. Sue’s brief visit only lasts a couple of days, but it feels nice to be themselves as they show her around Santa Cruz. At the end of her trip, after reminding Eric to take care of Dylan out of motherly habit, she insists on the boys dropping her off at the curb at the airport instead of walking her inside. Dylan leaves the car in the same spot so he can watch her get inside safely, despite the cop trying to wave him through traffic.

“That went better than you thought, huh?” Eric asks on the drive home. “I didn’t want to say it, but…”

“You do want to say it.”

“No!” Eric denies.

“Yes, you do. Just say it.” Dylan beckons with his hand like Bruce Lee.

Eric grins. “_I told you so_.”

*

That night, when Dylan leaves the house to pick up a pizza, Eric gives in to an irrational urge to call his parents. He misses them, he really does, as unfair as they’ve been to him. Eric dials his parents’ number with hopeful hands. 

“Mom? Is that you?”

“Eric?”

“Yeah. It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Well, how are you?”

“I’m good. I — Dylan’s mom came to visit. I missed you.”

“Here we go again.”

“Here we go again?”

“The Dylan story. You know, I thought it was a phase. A high school phase. Your father promised me the Marines would knock it out of you.”

“Why is that the part you gotta focus on, Mom? Why can’t you just be happy that I miss you?”

“I just wish you weren’t wasting your time with that man. There’s something off about him.”

“Dylan is the love of my fucking life, Mom,” Eric hisses. “He’s my husband.”

“Husband,” she scoffs. “You know, it’s not even legal here.”

“That’s all I’m ever going to be to you, huh? Some kind of fucking criminal?” Eric grips the phone tightly. If this is what his mother is saying, he doesn’t want to hear what his father thinks. 

“You know, it’s not too late to find a nice girl and settle down,” she tells him.

Eric tries to hold back his anger. “Yes, it is,” he replies through gritted teeth. “I’m settled. I am fucking settled.”

There’s silence on the line. Eric’s mom hates when he curses.

“I’ve got to go,” Eric says eventually, filling the silence. “Tell Dad I said hello. Or don’t. I don’t fucking care.” He hangs up and flings the phone across the room.

Five minutes later, Dylan returns with a pepperoni pizza, which Eric barely touches. Instead, he gets rip-roaring drunk. Dylan watches hopelessly, trying to understand.

“So what, you hold it together while my mom is here? The minute she leaves, you fall apart?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Eric commands patronizingly, without telling him about the catastrophic phone call.

“You’d tell me if something was up, right, Reb?”

Eric nods, but Dylan can’t shake the feeling that he’s been talking to a wall. 

*

Midnight. Eric is still missing from bed. Dylan sits up and puts on his glasses and trudges out to their living room. He’d had a bad feeling about this earlier but he gave Eric the benefit of the doubt.

“Babe,” Dylan says, speaking softly. “You want to come to bed?”

“No, I do not,” Eric says, finishing off a bottle of beer. It looked like he was at the end of a six-pack. The bottle of tequila is nowhere to be found, which means it’s probably already empty.

“Fine. Act like a child.”

“I’m not a kid!” Eric yells. Mal skitters away and into the bedroom.

“You could have fooled me,” Dylan counters, annoyed. Exhausted from his mother’s visit and Eric’s attitude, Dylan sits down beside him. He knows better than to go for a sip of Eric’s beer right now. “You know —”

“_You love me very much and you’re _here_ and so worried_,” Eric mocks.

Dylan stiffens. “Fuck you,” he says, pulling away.

“What happened to ‘I’m here’?” Eric simpers at him.

“I’m not letting you use my love as a fucking weapon, Reb,” he argues, glaring daggers at his husband. He starts picking up the empty bottles, grateful there aren’t any full ones to fight over. “What are you trying to prove?”

“What are _you_ trying to prove?”

“Why do you do this to me?”

“Because you’re cute when you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry,” Dylan argues. He’s only got so much fight left in him. “I’m hurt. I’m fucking sad. When I’m the only one who shows up for you, you give me shit for it.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“What the fuck is this, then?” Dylan asks, pointing to his wedding ring. He starts working it off of his ring finger. “What’s the fucking point?”

“_Put it back on_,” Eric growls.

Dylan watches the look of contempt on his face and contemplates leaving the ring with Eric, but who knows what he might do in a fit of rage. He slides it back into place on his finger. Infinice meant forever, no matter what.

Dylan shakes his head. “I’m going to sleep.” He stalks back to their bedroom, locking the door behind him. It’s childish, but then again, so is Eric. He leans back against the locked door with a sigh.

Eric follows after him, coming a moment too late. He jiggles the door handle, agitated when he finds out Dylan locked him out. Eric punches the door. 

*

In the morning, Dylan wakes up to Eric curled around him. He sighs. “Did you take the door off its hinges again?”

Eric gives him a penitent kiss. “You made me another spare key after the last time, remember?”

“You are so aggravating,” Dylan complains. “Come here, lover.” He opens his arms for Eric, who gets comfortable and presses kisses along Dylan’s jaw. “I want to kill you sometimes.” He tightens his skinny arms around Eric’s waist, his eyes falling shut again. “How long are you going to keep doing this to me? I want to help you.”

“You can’t. You know sometimes I lose it,” Eric reminds him. “It’s not you.”

Dylan grumbles, eyes still closed. “You know, you have to say _I’m sorry_ for it to count as an apology.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“I think it is.”

“Nope,” Eric disagrees, hooking a finger in the collar of Dylan’s t-shirt and pulling it down so he can kiss his collarbone. He moves lower, under the covers. He pulls the comforter up over his head so he can yank Dylan’s boxers down and lick him from base to tip.

“Are you really just going to - _oh_ \- fuck me every time this happens?”

“I thought I might try.”

“This is unhealthy.”

“Shut up,” Eric tells him, teasing him with his tongue. “I’m apologizing,”

Dylan moans. 

Eric “apologizes” without words, leaving Dylan a little starry-eyed after Eric makes him come, and he pulls the other man up for a kiss. Tongue in his mouth, he reaches down for Eric’s cock.

Eric catches Dylan’s wrist and pulls his arm back up. “I’ve got to walk the dog,” he says apologetically. 

Disappointed, Dylan lays back. “Oh.”

Eric gives him a squeeze before hopping out of bed.

“Are you coming back to —”

Eric closes the door before he can finish the question and say “bed”.

Dylan hides his face in the pillow. Back to this again.

*

The house is noticeably empty when Dylan gets up for good. He brews a cup of coffee and steps out onto the deck for a cigarette. Half-awake, he steps over the blood at first. It’s not until he’s puffing away on his Marlboro that he sees a trail of bloodstains leading across the deck.

Dylan follows the drops of blood until he comes across a mangled squirrel. The furry corpse is ripped open in a pool of blood. It must be the work of Mal, living up to her name.

Dylan ashes his cigarette into his empty coffee mug and leaves balanced it on the edge of the deck.

*

“We need to talk,” Dylan tells Eric when he steps through the front door.

“I didn’t fucking choose this,” Eric snaps, assuming Dylan’s upset with him, and Dylan sags.

“I meant Mal, Reb. There’s blood all over the deck,” Dylan complains. “She killed a squirrel.”

“I’ll clean it up later. Probably along with the five hundred coffee mugs you left out there.” Why is he always ready to fight?

“Please.” Dylan’s face softens. “Eric.”

Eric is still standing by the door, arms crossed over his chest. He starts fidgeting with his fingers.

Dylan reaches over and puts his hand on top of Eric’s. “I don’t want to have to beg to be close to you,” Dylan admits. “You’re not a burden.” The words are sweet forgiveness. None of this is fair. Dylan tries not to take Eric’s PTSD too personally, though he feels unequipped to understand the intricacies of how it affects Eric’s day-to-day life. He knows about the flashbacks, the triggers, the pain - just not how to make any of it better.

“Of course not. I’m a god,” Eric jokes.

“There’s the Eric I remember.”

“Fucking crazy?” Eric asks, dispirited.

“No. You’re a fucking warrior, Reb.” Dylan seals it with a kiss.

*

It’s a tight squeeze for both of them to fit on the couch. After Eric had cleaned up Mal’s mess they’d spent the evening playing video games - which never lasts as long as it used to - which soon turned into spooning on the couch and half-watching Cartoon Network. Eric insists on being the big spoon.

A commercial for the Nintendo 3DS comes on, something kitschy with a bunch of Japanese dudes getting sucked into the handheld console.

“Do you remember that Game Boy commercial when we were kids? I always wanted one,” Eric remarks. “I would buy my kid whatever they wanted.”

“Wait - you want kids?” Dylan asks. It dawns on Dylan that they’ve never discussed this before. Through all the long nights planning for their futures, this just… hadn’t come up.

“You don’t?!”

“I don’t think so. Just… I’m so fucked up, it doesn’t seem right to bring something else into this miserable existence. Besides, we’re dudes. I hadn’t really ever thought about it.”

“There’s adoption… or there’s surrogates or something,” Eric says softly. Like he’s fucking thought about it before.

“Maybe,” Dylan finally answers, unsure.

Dylan can’t believe he’s hearing those words come out of Eric’s mouth. He’s suddenly glad he’s not facing Eric. He can feel Eric tense up behind him - it’s slight, but noticeable - and he wonders if he’s said something horribly wrong.

*

Two weeks later Dylan gets an invitation to a birthday party for one of his colleagues’ kids. The co-worker had insisted it might sound strange, but the adults were going to booze and schmooze. Turns out Dylan’s the only one in the office without kids, so he gets an invite anyway.

It’s the type of thing Dylan would normally turn down, but his and Eric’s conversation from the other day was niggling the back of his mind. Maybe this was the kind of thing Eric wanted to do. He doesn’t know. It all feels strange.

The party is held in a park, with barbecue catered from a local joint. Blue and white balloons are strung up around the edges of a pavilion, and while there are dozens of kids running amok, there’s a decent selection of liquor for the “grown-ups”.

Dylan realizes as he’s introducing Eric to some of his colleagues that he’d been so worried about whether or not Eric could handle the chaos of something like this that he hadn’t even remembered that he wasn’t out at work. Nobody says anything or seems to care, though, and Dylan grazes his hand against Eric’s lower back while he’s pouring him another drink and manages not to worry.

Dylan tries to figure out what Eric is thinking while he watches the kids play. All Dylan can think is that he hated growing up, he would have hated this.

Someone taps on Dylan’s shoulder and he turns, gets pulled into a conversation by some colleague’s wife. She seems nice enough, and they chat about the company aimlessly while Eric grabs a bite to eat.

“I keep hoping John will put in for a transfer to Phoenix. I need something different!”

“Well, we used to live in Phoenix when I worked at headquarters. It wasn’t bad. We’ve been out here for…” Dylan is stunned when he counts out the time and the years add up faster than he expects. “I guess it’s been longer than I thought.”

“You like it?”

Dylan nods. “I think it’s good for us. The trees, the space…” Dylan digs his cellphone out so he can show her a photo of their house. He has to scroll past a photo of him and Eric to get to it, still feeling a little funny about being so open with a stranger, though she seems friendly enough.

“You two are cute.”

Dylan blushes. “Really?”

“I wish John looked at me that way,” she says, until a sharp _pop, pop, pop_ of balloons breaks the relative calm. She nudges Dylan. “Hey, isn’t that your…”

Dylan turns around and sees Eric standing alone, white-faced and frozen, looking ill. 

“Shit. Excuse me,” Dylan tells her, and he rushes to Eric’s side as casually as possible.

Eric seems disoriented when Dylan catches up with him. “Breathe,” Dylan reminds him gently.

Eric grips Dylan’s wrist using every ounce of muscle. 

“Get down,” Eric tells him, his voice firm.

“It’s me,” Dylan is about to say _it’s V_ but they’re in public.

Someone pops another balloon, the noise sounding louder than Dylan ever remembers balloons being. Dylan turns and waves his hands. “Would you please cut it out?” he yells. He tries to shield Eric but he’s already pale and quiet so it’s no use; his mind is in some foreign place.

Dylan finally gets Eric to look into his eyes and he begins to calm down.

“Do you wanna get out of here?”

Eric manages to nod and Dylan steers him toward the car with a hand on his shoulder.

Eric sinks against the car when they reach the parking lot. He heaves like he’s about to throw up.

Dylan watches him try to catch a breath, feeling useless. “It’s okay,” Dylan tells him.

“Fuck, it’s not okay,” Eric responds. “Are you fucking kidding me? I can’t even go out in public. What if something happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

Dylan studies Eric’s face. He’s been so busy and caught up in work lately that he hasn’t really paid attention to the changes in his husband. He’s skinnier than he usually is and his normally sharp cheekbones are standing stark from the rest of his face. There are dark circles under his eyes.

Dylan reaches for Eric’s hand.

“Don’t touch me.” Eric’s words are like poison. He stares at the ground.

“Are you okay?” Dylan finally asks.

“I’m great, Dylan. Peachy fucking keen.”

Eric gets in the car, not wanting to talk about it anymore. He pulls out a medicine bottle from his pants pocket, counting out two little blue football-shaped pills in his palm.

“Since when do you keep those with you?” Dylan asks.

“Don’t worry about it,” Eric tells him. “_Hoo-rah_.”

On the drive home, Eric starts to cry - hard. The red traffic lights shine on his face, illuminating the tracks of his tears.

Dylan lets him sob, doesn’t try to get him to stop.

Eric dries his eyes when they pull into the driveway. They don’t speak of it.

*

Eric goes to bed early that night, not bothering to change out of his clothes. Dylan stands in the doorway and watches him until Eric’s whole body shakes with a sigh.

“Just get the fuck in here.”

He’s over the don’t-touch-me shit from earlier, so Dylan holds him, consoles him. Nothing reminds Eric of home more than Dylan. Eric presses his face against Dylan’s chest and breathes deep, inhales and smells him. He smells like he always does, Marlboro menthols and the same brand of laundry detergent his mother used in high school.

Dylan runs his fingers through Eric’s blond hair. He’s been letting it grow out the way he did in high school instead of keeping it in a military high and tight. “Your hair’s getting long,” he murmurs, scratching Eric’s head affectionately.

“I was doing so well, too,” Eric’s voice is muffled, disappointed.

Dylan strokes his hair, unable to disagree.

*

The next time Dylan sees the blood spots, he’s smoking a cigarette on the deck. He spies the unmistakeable trail of still-wet blood leading from the stairs around the corner and inside the house.

Dylan follows the trail, catching Mal in the act of gripping a dead rabbit between her teeth. “Mal! No!” Dylan chases the dog into the house through the back door, the pitch of his voice rising as he tries to slow her down.

Eric appears in the bedroom doorway. “What the fuck are you yelling about, babe?”

“Reb, we’ve gotta fucking talk about these dead animals,” Dylan shrieks, pointing at the dog. “This has gotta stop!”

“It’s just a little blood,” Eric says.

“She brought it into the house!”

“That’s ‘cause she’s Daddy’s girl. I’m so proud of my little killer. She’s a fucking hunter,” Eric says proudly. Eric ignores Dylan to shower attention on Mal, speaking to her in gibberish and rubbing her ears. “Who’s a natural born killer?”

He gently takes the corpse from Mal’s mouth. He wraps the dead gray rabbit in a plastic bag and takes it to the garbage bin in the garage. 

Eric reappears and smirks at Dylan facing off with their dog. He washes the blood off his hands. “Happy now?” Eric stares at Dylan. “What about you, Dylan? Can you be good for Daddy?”

Dylan crosses his arms.

“What, you don’t have anything for me?” Eric sits on the couch, legs open. “Maybe you ought to show me how good you can be instead,” he suggests, patting his thigh. 

Eric crooks his finger, motioning for Dylan to come closer. He spreads his legs so Dylan can kneel between them. 

“See? You don’t need to be upset,” Eric says, grazing his thumb against Dylan’s cheekbone. “It spoils your pretty face.”

Dylan reaches for Eric but gets his hand slapped away. “Did I tell you to touch me? I know you’re not fucking dumb,” Eric says sharply. Was this his way of exerting control when he felt powerless? How did Dylan wind up being the one punished here?

“I’m sorry —”

Eric catches Dylan’s jaw between his fingers. “You’re going to show me. Take your pants off.”

Dylan reaches down and starts to unzip his jeans, but Eric yanks his chin again. “Did you forget something?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Dylan corrects himself, pressing the heel of his hand against the bulge in his jeans, knowing Eric can see him out of the corner of his eye.

“Goddamnit, Dylan,” Eric complains. “Are you doing this on purpose? Do you want to be punished?” He winds his fingers into Dylan’s golden hair and tugs. “I thought you were going to show me how good you could be but you’re being a little slut.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Dylan tries to apologize again, but that’s not how Eric wants his apology. Eric yanks his hair, exposing the long, pale column of his throat.

“I said I’d take care of it. I said I’ll take care of you.” Eric scratches his nails against Dylan’s scalp. “Now take off your pants and bend over the table.”

Dylan obeys. When he bends over the table, his half-hard dick presses painfully into the edge of the table.

“So you don’t have anything for me, but I’ve got something for you. Can you handle it?” Eric asks, running his hand over Dylan’s backside.

Dylan shivers. “Yes. Yes, _sir_.”

Eric starts slow, building it up, smacking Dylan one hit after another, savoring the noise of flesh against flesh and the way Dylan bucks underneath him. He takes his time increasing the pressure of his blows until Dylan strains back against his hand, practically begging him to stop.

Eric’s really wailing on Dylan now, his palm striking Dylan’s ass again and again with a sharp noise. He’s heaving all of his weight into the smacks, knowing Dylan’s sensitive ass must sting twice as much as his hand.

There are tears starting to form in the corners of Dylan’s eyes. His hands are shaking where he’s gripping the table. A sob wracks Dylan’s body but Eric just smacks him again, his hand landing on the tender, red skin that threatened to be raw for days. “Was that a complaint, slut?”

“No,” Dylan disagrees, then says it again. “No. Reb,” he whines. 

Eric yanks him up by his hair and slams him against the wall. He holds him there with a hand on his throat, pressing just enough so Dylan can’t speak. His eyes are red and raw, tears leaking out. Eric slaps him in the face, hand spreading wetness across Dylan’s cheek.

“_Phob—_” Dylan starts to say, reaching for Eric’s hands, but Eric slaps him again, stops him from speaking. “_Phobos. Phobos,_” he repeats, and Eric doesn’t let him go, just keeps him pressed up against the wall. 

“Gonna fill your mouth up, really give you something to complain about,” Eric mutters, knocking Dylan’s head back against the wall.

“Eric, please.” Dylan reaches for Eric’s chest, tries to hold him at a distance. “_Phobos!_”

It seems like it’s Eric’s name and not the safe word that calls him back to reality, but he finally drops his grip on Dylan, letting his arms fall to his sides.

Eric is quiet. The only sound in the quiet house is Dylan rasping, trying to regain his breath. He wants to reach for Eric, wants Eric to pull him into an embrace, but he keeps his hands to himself, afraid to touch him.

Eric backs away, and Dylan lets him go.

*

Dylan’s heart drops into his stomach when he sees the police car in his driveway.

The glow of the red flashing lights reflecting against the redwood trees is eerie and reminds Dylan of the day he called the ambulance because of Eric’s overdose. He shudders and pushes the painful memory away. 

“Fuck,” Dylan curses as he pulls into his regular parking spot. He struggles with his seatbelt and gets out of the car as fast as he can.

There’s a cop in front of the garage arguing with Eric. From what Dylan can see, it’s not going well. Eric’s posture is alert and offended. Dylan approaches.

“Can I help you?” he asks, looking to both of them, despite Eric’s “I’ll-handle-it” glare.

“Everything’s under control. Sir, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“This is my house.”

The police officer looks from Eric to Dylan and shakes his head, disgusted. “Jesus,” he mutters. 

“The neighbors called the fucking cops,” Eric spits.

“Look, sir, I’m not arresting your roommate, but this is how people get hurt.”

“Husband,” Dylan corrects.

“I’m a Marine,” Eric couldn’t resist defending himself. “I know what I’m doing.”

“And you can trust that he won’t be doing it in the backyard anymore,” Dylan insists, trying to get Eric to catch his drift and play along.

The officer takes a moment, staring Eric down. “He better not. Possessing a loaded firearm out here is a misdemeanor and next time won’t be so easy. Don’t give me a reason to come back here,” the cop says judgmentally. “And learn some respect.”

The cop returns to his patrol car. Dylan breathes a sigh of relief when he turns off his lights and he disappears from the driveway.

“Did you have to argue with him?” Dylan asks, stepping in front of Eric to block the cop’s view of the middle finger he’s throwing up. Eric couldn’t resist one last chance to instigate.

“I served my country in a real goddamn uniform just so this motherfucker can tell me what not to do on my own property.”

“We _are_ within city limits,” Dylan reminds him.

“Fuck that! Barely!”

“Why didn’t you go to the range?”

Eric shrugs. “No lizards to shoot at the range,” Eric finally remarks.

“Right.” Dylan sneaks a glance at the deck. There are empty beer cans lined up on the railing, some of them dotted with bullet holes. There’s his answer.

Dylan presses his fingers against his temples. An ache is starting to form in his head. 

“What’s up with you?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

Dylan swallows. “Long day at work. The system went down before lunch so everyone’s been begging me for something all day, even the people who usually don’t know I exist.”

“And you thought working with computers meant not working with people,” Eric jokes. He follows Dylan inside.

“Not all of us are lucky enough to work from home,” Dylan grumbles. “I need a distraction,” Dylan admits.

Eric pulls Dylan into his arms.

“Put the gun down,” Dylan whispers, a gentle reminder which Eric obeys quickly so he can wrap both arms around Dylan. Eric scratches his fingers lightly against Dylan’s back over his t-shirt.

Dylan tries to hide the pained sound he makes when a jolt of pain goes through his head. His hands are barely helping.

Eric reaches up and knocks Dylan’s fingers out of the way so he can press his own fingers against Dylan’s temple, massaging the side of his face. Dylan takes Eric’s hands in his own, pressing them down even harder until he gets the pressure exactly right. His eyes sink closed.

“I’m so tired,” Dylan sighs.

“Yeah,” Eric agrees.

“Lie down with me?” Dylan asks, afraid of Eric’s reaction, but Eric just grabs a handful of his shirt and leads him to the bedroom, where he flips the lightswitch and pulls Dylan into bed.

Eric feeds some of his excess energy into stroking Dylan’s hair, working his fingers through it until Dylan falls asleep.

After the nap, Dylan wakes up and reaches for Eric, who is still beside him, despite not sleeping. “You don’t have to wait for me, you know,” Dylan says fondly, yawning through his sentence.

“What else would I do?”

“Get in trouble,” Dylan replies, though he’s not blaming him for the situation with the cops. It’s probably a good sign that their neighbors were watchful, as long as they weren’t keeping too close an eye on things.

Eric leans over him for a warm, sleepy kiss. “So what’s the plan?”

The nap had tempered Dylan’s anger a little bit, but he was mad: at work, at Eric’s temper, at the homophobic police officer’s stupid comments.

“I don’t feel like doing anything. I just want to sit here and get drunk.”

“We can do that.”

It takes them another thirty minutes to make it into the kitchen, hesitant to abandon the comfort of their pillows. Dylan locates a bottle of Jack Daniels and pours them both a glass. Frustrated, they drink together, still upset about their little run-in with law enforcement. 

It doesn’t take long for Eric to get drunk, in fact, he’s still a little tipsy from this afternoon. Dylan catches up quickly, refilling his glass after draining it in one avid gulp.

“Can you believe that guy?”

“What a fucking asshole,” Dylan agrees. “But for real, you need to keep it in check, Eric,” Dylan tells him, thinking of their house, Eric’s record, all the things that could go wrong.

“Fuck you, trying to give me orders. I spent years being subservient in the Marines, following orders. Left, right, left. Fight, kill, bleed.”

“It’s over, Reb,” Dylan reminds him, slurring a little.

“But it’s never gone, don’t you get it?” He waves his hand. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.” Overwhelmed, Eric loses his temper. “You have no idea what it’s like!”

“Don’t yell at me,” Dylan snaps, his eyes going dark. Mad, and unwilling to do something he’ll regret, he backs up out of the kitchen and heads for the front door.

Eric lets him leave, slamming his drink down on the countertop. Liquid sloshes out the top.

Eric seethes for a moment, clenching his fists tightly and stalking around the kitchen. He starts sweeping empty bottles into the trash just to occupy his hands, kicking the can when he finishes.

Eric looks toward the door. He’s pretty drunk, but so is his husband. Dylan’s car keys are still sitting by the six-pack, so he’s either smoking a cigarette or off on one of his runaway jaunts.

Eric starts shuffling through mail and keys and crap. Dylan’s Marlboro menthols are still sitting where he left them after the beer run.

“Goddamn it,” Eric curses, putting his face in his hands. He fetches his car keys from their usual place by the door after confirming Dylan isn’t on the deck. 

Eric drives slowly down the road leading to their house until he spots Dylan walking along the road alone. Eric rolls down the window and pulls up beside him, keeping the truck moving slowly.

“Babe,” Eric pleads. “Get in the car.”

Dylan refuses to stop. 

“Please,” Eric asks, drunk enough to say it. “You know there’s nothing for nearly two miles,” Eric tries to convince him. “Officer Dummkopf is gonna be hella pissed when he sees that it’s you, you know that, right?”

Dylan stops. 

Eric pulls the car onto the narrow shoulder until Dylan’s tall figure is silhouetted in the headlights. He gets out to reach him before he starts walking again. 

“Vodka,” Eric says, jogging up to his husband. He reaches for his sleeve and he doesn’t fight, just sags into Eric’s arms. Eric is almost thrown off balance but he catches him. “Hey, hey.” He brings a hand up to Dylan’s sweaty hair.

Dylan clings to Eric, hands scrambling at his shoulder blades, his anger mutated into something like sadness. 

“Let me take you home,” Eric begs. He walks Dylan to the passenger side of the truck and helps him in, leaning over him to buckle the seatbelt. Dylan’s hands flop obediently in his lap.

Eric drives back to the house - Dylan had managed to cover a remarkable distance in a short time with his long legs - and helps Dylan from the car to their bedroom.

“How about a shower?” Eric suggests, steering Dylan toward the bathroom. He turns the water on before turning to assist Dylan, who’s struggling with his t-shirt. Eric helps him yank it over his head. “You look like you need some help,” Eric decides. “What do you think? Can you stand some company?”

Dylan gives him a sloppy, drunken kiss that Eric humors, making sure Dylan remains upright.

Dylan wolf-whistles when Eric steps out of his jeans and tugs off his shirt. 

“Okay, okay,” Eric laughs, pushing Dylan into the shower. He joins him a moment after. The shower’s not meant for two full-grown men, so they do their best to share the water, with Eric gently nudging Dylan back under the stream to help sober him up.

“You’re my best,” Dylan starts, struggling for words. 

“I know,” Eric agrees, trying to save him the trouble.

Dylan grabs his shoulder, flexes his thumb against Eric’s collarbone. “No, _Eric_ —” he insists. 

Dylan kisses him, warm water streaming down and trickling from Dylan’s cheekbones over their lips. They hold each other close, barely enough room for water droplets to seek purchase, hands wandering over each other’s bare skin as the water flows. 

Grounded by a sense of touch, they keep their hands on each other, sliding palms across wet skin. They run their fingertips over every inch of each other’s bodies, taking their time, letting their hands wander until the water gradually turns cold.

Dylan’s still a little woozy, so Eric watches him carefully while he steps out of their tub.

Eric tosses a clean towel to Dylan before disappearing into their bedroom to find boxers and t-shirts for them both. He’s dry and fighting with the tangles in his hair when Eric returns to the bathroom. 

Dylan pushes the shirt away when Eric tries to hand it to him. He shakes his head, runs a finger down Eric’s bare chest. Eric forgets the shirts on top of the counter and follows Dylan to bed.

Eric lines them up so his chest is flush against Dylan’s back, feeling body heat spread between them. Dylan is a few inches taller than he is, so it’s not the most comfortable angle, but they make it work, and Eric loops an arm around Dylan’s slender waist to keep him nearby.

*

Depressed and hungover, Dylan and Eric stand hunched under the eaves, trying their best to stay dry as rain falls in massive sheets through the redwoods. The bleak weather matches their moods.

Mal watches them from inside the house.

“I’m tired of things being so depressing all the time,” Eric laments. He passes his cigarette to Dylan, fingertips brushing in a gesture more intimate than a kiss.

“I think I’m ready for a change,” Dylan agrees, eyeing the fog that creeps up at the edge of the trees and watching it mix with the smoke from their cigarette.

*

April is a month of new life, new habits. The weather warms up and the color in the world warms up with it. Dylan gets clean about the same time Mal stops digging up dead things.

A warbler’s nest takes up residence on the corner of the house, and Dylan worries every day that Mal will find a way to get into it. His concern runs so deep he even contemplates relocating the nest to another location. She leaves it be, so he does too, until one day Dylan sees a tiny baby bird poking its head up over the side. It feels like a good sign. 

Dylan stops drinking and starts doing yoga, which Eric makes fun of him for at first. Then Eric catches a glimpse of him on the deck one morning in a kapotasana and decides maybe he could get behind this. Literally, he wants to get behind Dylan. His lanky body has never looked so good.

“Something wrong?” Dylan asks, shifting into a wheel pose.

“What’s that, baby?” Eric says, watching his body move.

“I said, is something wrong?”

Eric takes in the spring sunlight filtering through his hair, the way his angular body actually looks posed and graceful. Eric wants to eat him up. “Never been better.”

Dylan stands up and stretches, breaking the spell. “I can’t do this with you staring at me and judging me.”

“What?” Eric asks, affronted, throwing his hands in the air. He approaches Dylan and puts his hands on his hips, tugging him closer. “100 percent. Five stars. A+,” Eric grins. He acts like he’s pouting when Dylan rolls his eyes. “What?” Eric asks. “You think I’m joking?” He grips Dylan’s hips and spins him around, pushing him against the railing of the deck and crowding up against him. He grinds his hard-on against Dylan’s ass. “You think that’s a joke?”

Eric folds Dylan’s arms behind his back and ruts against him, pushing their hips together. “Answer me.”

“No, sir,” Dylan answers, arching his back. 

Eric leans in and bites Dylan’s shoulder. When he pulls away the skin is red, marking the place where his teeth have been. He reaches for Dylan’s dick, fondling him over his pants before trying to slip his hand underneath his waistband.

“Eric. _Eric_,” Dylan says, trying to get his attention. “You can’t fuck me out here.”

Eric pushes him harder against the railing, making sure he can feel how hard Eric is. “Are you telling me what to do?”

Dylan whimpers.

Eric grinds against Dylan’s ass, a slow, deliberate push, caging Dylan in with his arms. “I can do what I want,” Eric tells him, “and I want you.” He presses his mouth to the juncture between Dylan’s neck and spine, laying a kiss there. “I want you on the bed. Go.”

Dylan turns around in Eric’s arms, closing his eyes as Eric kisses him on the mouth.

“Now,” Eric insists, reaching down to adjust his junk.

Dylan disappears into the bedroom. He’s already naked, stroking his cock, spread-eagled on their mattress when Eric finds him again.

“Look at you,” Eric snipes. “Couldn’t fucking wait, could you?”

Dylan lays his palms flat on the bed as Eric takes him in. Eric’s always loved Dylan’s hipbones. He’s so skinny and tall that they’re sharp and angular and perfect. Eric bends over and draws his tongue across one. “I’m gonna make you happy whether you like it or not.”

Dylan grins.

Eric draws an imaginary line with his tongue from Dylan’s hip to his cock. Pleased at the way Dylan’s cock throbs under his tongue, he takes him down, closing his lips over the head of Dylan’s dick.

Eric sucks Dylan off until he’s close to the edge. “I’m gonna come,” he murmurs.

Eric pulls off Dylan’s dick. “Hold on,” he requests, rising up the length of Dylan’s body and kissing Dylan’s closed eyelids. “You can wait for me, can’t you?”

Eric presses inside Dylan with his fingers before fucking him, his movements slow and deliberate, teasing. Dylan loves it when Eric touches him like this, tender and meaningful, taking his time. 

Eric’s power surges through Dylan’s body. He can’t remember the last time he wanted him this bad. They move together, bodies colliding, hands and teeth and lips and skin. The sweat on their bodies is slick where it mixes together at every point where their flesh is pressed together intimately. 

Dylan gazes up at his husband, blue eyes transfixed. He feels weightless as Eric pounds into him, stretching him open and filling him completely.

“I love you,” Eric breathes, giving him a kiss. His hands feel strong where they’re braced on Dylan’s hipbones.

Dylan arches up under his touch, though his words drive him almost as mad.

“That’s it, baby, come on,” Eric encourages, his voice low in Dylan’s ear. “Come.” He pumps Dylan’s dick a few more times until he comes over his fingers. Watching him, Eric loses it, his cock filling Dylan up, seed spilling. “You’re so fucking hot,” Eric murmurs, attacking his neck with kisses.

Dylan’s response is a shy smile, almost bashful, as he turns his head and laughs. He stretches across both sides of the bed, languid and loose. “No, you,” he disagrees. He reaches for Eric’s left hand and presses a kiss to the center of his palm.

Completely fucked out, they doze off together. Dylan’s been blessed with the whole day off, a chance for them to spend some time alone, just the two of them, preferably without being at each other’s throats.

Dylan’s the first to wake from their nap, delicately sliding his fingertips up and down Eric’s arm until the other man begins to stir. They spend almost an hour moving closer under the sheets, making out like teenagers, until they decide they can’t avoid facing the day any longer. 

“So what do you want to do today?” Eric asks Dylan, sliding his hand underneath Dylan’s shirt. Dylan’s skin is warm underneath his palm.

“Let’s go for a drive,” Dylan suggests, eyes still closed. He just wants to hit the open road and feel the wind on his face. “I don’t care where. Let’s just _go_ and get out of here.”

“Okay,” Eric agrees. He kisses his cheek. “I’m gonna brush my teeth and walk the dog. Be ready by the time I get back?”

Dylan agrees, but Eric has to kiss him awake anyway when he returns.

Dylan changes into a t-shirt before they take off, grabbing one of Eric’s flannels from an open drawer. Eric’s waiting in the passenger seat of his car with a lit cigarette when he emerges from the house.

Dylan starts driving with no destination in mind. He drives and drives and drives.

Eventually they find themselves near the ocean. Dylan skips the boardwalk for the smaller beach, knowing Eric won’t want to battle any crowds. He doesn’t feel much like it, either. Plus, Dylan likes the look of the natural bridges, the big rock formations on the beach. There’s a large mudstone arch in the surf, a mixture of silt and clay that solidified into stone over a million years ago. 

Dylan and Eric meander toward the shoreline. Eric seems surprised that Dylan wants to take his hand in public, but Dylan shrugs. “Fuck it,” he says, stubbing up. They’ve been married for years but were still anxious about public displays of affection after what they went through in high school. 

The two of them walk along the water’s edge as the tide rolls in, sharing a companionable silence until Eric begins to talk out of nowhere. 

“During deployment, the other Marines would talk about relationships and how they don’t survive,” Eric says. “It’s impossible. They’re just not built to last. It didn’t matter who it was; it was like some kind of guarantee. But I never doubted for a second that you’d be there,” he tells Dylan. “I knew something could happen to me in an instant but you… I _knew_ you’d be there.”

“I told you I’d wait for you.”

“I know. You told me and I believed you, but Dylan… you have no idea. It wouldn’t be worth it without you. I don’t know what I would have done.”

Dylan squeezes Eric’s hand. “Sometimes it feels like I focus on the past so much, and it all seems negative… but there were good parts, too… remember the movies we used to make?”

Eric grins and nods. “I loved when you would look at me.” He nudges Dylan. “I wanted you to put down the damn camera and kiss me.”

Dylan blushes, remembering his nervous, awkward high school self. How long had they orbited around each other, two deep, individual worlds before they’d been united?

“When I was in high school I thought bliss existed, like it was a real possibility… but life is fucked up, and it’s always going to be fucked up. I know that now. But at least I have you.”

“We were both kind of fucked up in high school.”

“We’re fucked up now.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you for a long time, V,” Eric says soberly. “Sometimes I feel like I died over there, but you - you give me a reason to live, every single day.”

They pass a child building a sandcastle, stacking pails of sand higher and higher. It’s an impressive structure, despite the integrity of the sand. There are two women watching his construction (sisters, lovers, who knows)? Dylan realizes that while he’s gauging the relationship between the women, Eric’s eyes haven’t left the kid. Dylan looks back to the sandcastle and thinks about the conversation they had, how much that must have sucked for Eric.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad,” Dylan admits.

“Yeah?” Eric studies his face. “You mean it?”

Dylan nods. He kisses Eric out in the open, on a large stretch of pale sand. Ten years ago Dylan would have led Eric behind the massive rocks and kissed him in the shadows. They would have hid behind the rock in a secret embrace.

“There’s middle schoolers over there,” Eric tells him, thinking he doesn’t notice, but Dylan just raises a hand and flips them off. They look more interested in each other anyway.

“I don’t care,” he says against Eric’s lips. All of Dylan’s stupid issues about being seen in public had never helped them one bit. “I’m done hiding. I did it in high school, and with my family. For four years we did it because we had to. But you’ve been out of the Marines a long time. I’m 35 fucking years old and I’m still pretending like this isn’t okay. You deserve better.”

“I don’t want our family to have to hide,” Eric agrees. “…If we’re going to have a family?”

“Yeah. Let’s do it,” Dylan concurs boldly, a swell of hope for the future moving within his chest.

Eric looks out at the ocean, trying to hide the way his face lights up from his husband. Dylan sees it anyway and squeezes his hand, a silent reassurance.

Eric and Dylan don’t drop their handhold until they make it back to the parking lot after crossing the beach. Eric pushes Dylan against the passenger side door, sun shining on their skin, and kisses him just for the hell of it. 

They shake the sand off their feet. They shake off the past.


	2. Epilogue: Life Is Sweet

**Epilogue**

Over the years, the refrigerator in Eric and Dylan’s house goes from bare to being covered by evidence of their life together. There’s a bit of everything: photographs (the one existing photo from their wedding day, candids, silly shots Dylan snaps of Eric that he can’t resist putting up), ticket stubs from Rammstein’s first American tour in a decade, Mal’s yearly check-up from the vet, doodles Eric draws of tech and weaponry. And there, in the middle of it all, the newest photo: a snapshot of a newborn baby girl.

Eric and Dylan’s house appears empty when Dylan comes home after work, although all the rooms in their once clean house now bear clues to a child everywhere: child-proofing on the cabinets, baby toys on the floor, Dr. Seuss books mixed in with Eric’s _Doom_ and _Halo_ novelizations. 

Dylan calculates that he might be able to sneak a cigarette before his husband notices he’s back, even though he “quit smoking” a few weeks ago. He grabs the baby monitor and Eric’s pack of Kamel Reds from the coffee table and steps out onto the deck for a cigarette. The moment he lights it the baby monitor crackles.

“_Vodka, this is Reb. What’s your 20? Over._”

Eric treats the baby monitors like walkie-talkies sometimes, sneaking around in soldier mode. It cracks Dylan up. Sometimes he’s in a state of disbelief about how much joy their daughter brings into their lives, even via the mundane things (although Eric is waiting for the day she’s old enough to play video games - for now, it was still mostly food and sleep, sleep and food).

“_On the deck. Over._”

“_You’re fucking right it’s over! I’ve been waiting to smoke since she woke up from her nap! Get your skinny ass in here._” Eric complains over the baby monitor.

Dylan takes a few more puffs of his cigarette and stubs it out, balancing the other half on the edge of the deck for later. 

He finds his husband and his daughter in the bedroom, where Eric is just finishing putting her down in the crib. Dylan watches as he tucks her in then passes out spread-eagled on the bed.

Dylan smirks and leans over Eric. “Still want that cigarette?”

Eric shakes his head. “I can’t move.”

Their lives fall into a routine easily. Eric’s work-from-home job makes him a natural stay-at-home dad, cooking and cleaning, keeping house. Dylan will come home at five and doze on the couch while Eric makes dinner (if Eric can’t convince him to bring home take-out) before watching their daughter for the rest of the evening. Eric always crashes after, hard.

“Forget what I said before,” Eric whines. He’s always going on about how he’ll do things differently than his own parents, about how he’ll give his own kid the life he never had. “I forgive my parents for everything. I just want to sleep.” He rubs at the dark circles under his eyes.

“You look beat,” Dylan comments, but Eric makes room for him. Mal curls up on the floor at the end of the bed, their constant companion in raising their daughter.

“I’m so tired. I’m never not tired.” Eric leans his head against Dylan’s shoulder. “Your daughter is a handful.”

“_My_ daughter?! Don’t blame this on me. You can’t get rid of our little girl that easily,” Dylan laughs.

Eric closes his eyes. “Say it again.”

“Our little girl. Our daughter.”

Eric smiles, a peaceful smile, not that smirk he gets when he’s up to something. “Don’t get me wrong, I love that little crying machine. I just miss the quiet sometimes.”

“Well…”

“What’s up?”

“My mom wants to come visit. See the baby.”

A crazed expression crosses Eric’s face. “What’d you tell her?”

“I told her I’d check with you first.” 

Eric groans. He appreciates Dylan protecting their privacy but the idea of having another adult around to help out for a while so that he can get one solid night of sleep is too good to pass up. “Give me your phone.”

Dylan fishes his cellphone out of his pocket. Eric takes it from him and finds Sue’s entry, typing out a quick text message. Dylan takes the phone back after he sends it, reading the note Eric wrote:

_PLEASE come visit, Mom!!!_

Dylan chuckles. “I guess it didn’t take much to convince you, huh?” He jostles Eric’s shoulder. “Eric?”

Dylan looks down - his husband is already dozing against his shoulder.

*

Two weeks later, Sue comes to visit, and they can almost taste their freedom. 

With his mother and his husband and his daughter in the same room (and Mal, too), Dylan feels impossibly whole for what must be the first time in his life. Their introduction is - forgive Dylan’s terminology - precious. He doesn’t know what else to call it, feeling like a pussy for using the word, but there’s no other way to describe the way his mother’s face shines when she meets her granddaughter for the first time. 

Sue snaps a photo of Dylan and Eric fussing over their daughter. Dylan reminds himself to ask her for a copy later - it’s the first photograph of the three of them together.

Sue coos over their little monster, unable to look away from her granddaughter with her sweet face and reddish-blonde hair. “What is she going to call me?” Sue asks.

“Grandma,” Eric answers immediately.

“What about your parents, Eric?” Sue asks. Surely Eric should consult with Dylan first.

“Trust me,” he answers confidently. “You’re Grandma.”

Touched, she smiles. 

Time flies by as she rocks her granddaughter to sleep while Dylan and Eric argue about kid’s books. Dylan flips through his latest find proudly as he shows it off to Eric. The short book is sly, with dark illustrations, the sinister story of a fish with a fabulous hat.

“This fish is a motherfucking criminal! Excuse me, Sue,” Eric apologizes for his language. 

Sue waves her hand, focused on the baby.

“This is bleak, Dylan,” Eric continues, looking at the book in mock shock. “This is murder. These sea creatures are stone-cold killers.”

Dylan pouts. “There’s a moral to the story. I think.”

“What, thievery and murder are fine as long as nobody sees you? Our daughter is going to turn out to be a violent criminal!” Eric pretends to be outraged.

“You’re her father, aren’t you?” Dylan retorts playfully.

Eric thwacks him across the chest. “I want a divorce.”

“You’ve been cooped up too long.” Sue laughs at the two of them and tries to shoo them out of the house. “Go. Give your husband a break,” she whispers to Dylan. She insists she can watch their girl for a while, expecting them to get out of the house, maybe go get dinner, but Eric and Dylan can’t even make it out the door. Instead they curl up in bed together, exhausted.

*

“This is the scariest thing I’ve ever done,” Dylan murmurs, staring down at their daughter’s crib, feeling stupid after he says it. His husband has been to war, has fought and killed and bled for his country. This is nothing. Wait — that’s a lie. _It’s the everything._

Sometimes Dylan feels like he and Eric can barely handle their own lives, and now they were responsible for a new one. Her face is small, hands tiny and pink, so impossibly pure.

“You don’t have to be scared to touch her,” Eric laughs, sneaking up on Dylan. Dylan always stares into the crib like he’s looking for the meaning of life itself, the unthinkable, the undefineable, the unknown.

The baby starts to stir, reaching out. Eric lifts her out of the crib and holds her against his chest. She yawns and quiets instantly.

“You’re so good with her,” Dylan remarks. “How are you so good at this?”

“Instinct. I don’t know,” Eric answers. “You are too. You just don’t realize it, Pops.”

“No,” Dylan frowns.

“Daddio.” Dylan shakes his head at the names. “Pappy. _Vater_.”

Dylan presses a finger to Eric’s lips to quiet him before their daughter wakes up and starts crying. No need to spoil the peace while it lasts. 

Dylan replaces his finger with his lips, burying his doubts in the kiss.

“I always wanted love,” Dylan murmurs softly. “I thought - _I did_ \- find it with you. But this is what I was missing,” he says, heart full when he looks at her little face cradled in Eric’s hand. Dylan always thought Eric was his everything; he remembers his wedding vows, and Eric echoing those words to him on their wedding night. Looking at them both, his husband and his daughter, his world seems bigger, now. “The everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought I would continue writing in this universe after starting _Where Do I Begin_ almost a year ago. Every time I thought I finished with these versions of Eric & Dylan they just wouldn’t let me go. Thanks for coming along on the ride!


End file.
